


Tweed As Secretary

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [50]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: 1950s, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Chronological, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7717165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cats and paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tweed As Secretary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kivrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/gifts).



Paul elbows his way into the kitchen with his hands full of lettuce to find Foyle and Tweed in a staring contest over the kitchen table. The table is strewn with papers in the process of arrangement, mostly typed pages with the odd scribbled note or printed receipt, and folders; Foyle has two stacks in front of him and Tweed has her front paws up on the edge of the table.

‘I told you not to do that here,’ Paul says, dropping the leaves in the sink.

‘And where else do you suggest?’ Foyle says without moving.

Tweed chirps and stands up on her hind legs, planting her front paws squarely on the papers closest to her edge of the table. They slide under her feet and she digs her claws in, provoking an irritated huff from Foyle who tries to extract the pages from under her. 

Paul runs water over the lettuce and leaves it to drain, turning away to dry his hands and watch the game. ‘I don’t know -- the attic maybe? It’s got a door that shuts.’

Foyle taps Tweed’s paws with the cap of his pen and she carefully withdraws one, then replaces it while pulling back the other, clearly willing to play whatever game it is Foyle has in mind. She chirps at him again and hops onto the table, planting herself firmly on a stack of small slips, wrapping her tail neatly around her hind feet. He waves the pen at her and she watches it with interest, lifting one paw to bat at it lazily.

‘Is Hilda allergic to cats?’ Paul inquires.

‘I’ve no idea. I hope not for her sake.’ Foyle frowns thoughtfully at Tweed, then glances over at Paul. ‘The attic, you think?’

Paul laughs and scoops Tweed off the table, brushing the papers back together with the edge of his hand. He cuddles the cat against his chest, letting her knead at his shoulder, and sits in her vacated chair. ‘Or I could just sit here and keep her occupied.’

‘Not very interesting for you,’ Foyle says, dropping his pen onto the table and leaning back in his chair to stretch. He rolls his shoulders, and arches his neck in what Paul recognizes is a vain attempt to ease the muscles, then sits up straight again. Moving leaves his collar awry and one of his sleeves has begun to unroll; he starts to roll it again, looking down at the sheets in front of him as he doubles the material back on itself with quick fingers. 

Paul watches Foyle's hands and scratches Tweed gently under the chin as she purrs and stretches against his arm. ‘I don’t know -- there’s something satisfying in watching someone _else_ do the paperwork for a change.’

Foyle looks up and smiles, tugging his collar back straight. It isn't intentional, Paul knows, but it frames the angle of bone and soft skin at the base of Foyle's throat perfectly. ‘Yes, you certainly did your share over the years. Mine, too, although you shouldn’t have.’

Paul shrugs and gets up. ‘What else are sergeants for?’ He opens the garden door and ushers Tweed onto the back step. She pushes back against his ankles momentarily but, when he doesn’t move to let her back into the kitchen, she leaps off the top step and starts investigating the edge of the garden. ‘There. Peace and quiet for you.’

Foyle nods, tapping his pen against the table. ‘For at least half an hour.’

‘Think of it as an encouraging sort of deadline.’ Paul rests his hands on Foyle’s shoulder, pressing his thumbs gently into what he knows will be sore spots at the base of Foyle’s neck. Foyle groans and lets his head drop forward onto the backs of his hands; Paul chuckles and rubs his knuckles along Foyle’s shoulders. 

‘That isn’t helpful,’ Foyle says, his voice muffled.

‘I’m not trying to be.’ Paul leans closer, letting his hands slide over Foyle’s shoulders and down his chest, pressing kisses behind Foyle’s ear where he knows the skin is sensitive. 


End file.
